Beneath the Stars and Fae
by AnimeDomo
Summary: Worn and abused, they bonded through salves and secrets. AU; America/England-Alfred/Arthur.


Warnings: Inaccurate-ish AU, OOC, mentions of parental abuse as well as spouse abuse, your typical childhood douches, some swearing, human names, and light/fluffy boy-love (USUK).

Many thanks to lilycat808 on for the idea. -heart-

**XXX**

_"Minger! Minger!"_

_"Alfred, do stay out of matters that don't concern you, dear. . . no, my relationship with your mother is no concern of yours. I am your father, and you shall do as I say without question!"_

_"Why do you even still come here? No one wants you around, ya know."_

_"Shut up, Jones. You're annoyin' as hell. . ."_

_"Aw, I think Eyebrows is gonna cry! What're ya gonna do? Go cryin' to your bint-of-a-mom, ya Nancy?"_

_"I know you think you're only doing what's right, Alfred, but I'll say it only once more; keep your nose out of business that doesn't concern you. Your mother simply needs a little 'righting' sometimes. Disobey me again and your punishment shall be far worse than a simple leather belt. Do you understand me, boy?"_

**XXX**

In due time, beneath the unforgiving Western skies that gazed on so curiously in all of it's hued-glory and wrath, life simply grew to become too much of a burden for either boy to withstand. Fate left a bitter taste on each childish tongue, but the trials varied; for Arthur Kirkland, the insults, the taunts, the general cruelty of the children he was forced to endure as the sun continued it's glorious cycle above them, suspended and untouched against it's ever changing backdrop, became too much to shoulder. Spine hunched in scathing distress, the young Brit donned his outer coats and turned-tail for the verdant forest, striking in it's contrast of the golden space surrounding it, without sparing the chipped paint of the rotting schoolhouse a second glance. The wicked echos of the children he left behind him dogged his footfalls spitefully, never completely out of earshot. His tears tasted as bitter as their ruthful words. He had been taught by the gentle tones of his late Father that differences weren't to be feared, were to be rejoiced and embraced and accepted and shared by kind words and the flow of time; he had been taught by his schoolmates that if you didn't fight back you were likely to sport less bruises when you limped your way home on twisted ankles.

Alfred Jones, on the other hand, wasn't as quick to resign to his Fate. He could feel Fate's ragged nails pulling at his morals maliciously, whispering darkly into his ear with swift words like the summer wind, warning him to '_sit_' and '_hush_', and most importantly to '_mind his own damned business_' just as his Father had many times before with his own hand. And yet, as he returned to their modest family home after his lessons at the town's deteriorating schoolhouse and heard his Mother curled into herself in the back room, sobbing into her bruised hands and whimpering words of accedence into the polished leather of his Father's boots, he simply couldn't bring himself to '_sit_' or '_hush_' or '_mind his own damned business_'. In the end, under the glow of lamplight inside his own four walls, it was evident that it was his own heroic mindset that gave him the furious carmine welts across his face and back; yes, it was his own resolute ideals that painted his eyes black and traced his ribs with contusions, and he found himself resisting temptation's call to rage against the four walls, to smash the glass of the crafted lantern into the wooden boards beneath his feet and set the coarse wool blanket that had shielded him the night's he'd cried through his blackened eyelids alight. Rather than indulge in his baneful urges, he jimmied open the room's window when it stuck to the wooden frames and stole into the crepusular light of dusk under the pretense of shadow, beryl eyes fixed darkly on the forest looming, silhouetted against the sunset, in the far distance.

**XXX**

He'd been hidden there for hours, shaking chin resting on his coarsely clothed arms as he watched the Lights dance around him. He'd been born to the world a "chime-child", gifted with a sight most could only comprehend in their petty dreams under the stars. The Spirits he was blessed enough to discern between the realms of Reality were his comfort when his tears streamed into his lap, warm and foreboding; they were his friends when days were slow and far-reaching, and his mentors when he inquired about the worlds of fantasy and magic with genuine enthusiasm and a spark or two of interest. Today, they drifted by calmingly, resting on his shoulders and knees with a gentle touch he couldn't really feel then flitting away to drift about the grove once more.

Arthur lifted his head from his arms gingerly, stretching his legs before him and straightening his back so that his sun-bleached locks brushed the aging Oak behind him as his tendons burned and tingled in protest. His tears had long since dried on his cheeks, a reminder of how pathetic he truly was. With an earnest sense of self-loathing, his eyes took in the scene he had surrounded himself with, iris' as green as the Spring leaves the towering ancients above him bore.

A roughly shaped clearing, coarse roots intertwining one Oak to another around the edge of the unidentifiable shape of land, the grass tall enough to hide between the blades. The sun should be setting about now, Arthur realized. Being in the forest was almost like setting himself before an illusion; the forest was a world without a sense of time, cut off from the harsh lands surrounding it. Arthur loved it so. Against the darkened branches and shadows, between the swaying grass curling about his tattered shoes, small flickers of light drifted aimlessly in lazy loops and halfhearted angles. Souls long forgotten since the land had been settled and tilled; the Spirits of the Forest.

The blonde youth reached out one hand to softly cup a nearby Spirit, releasing it from the unsuspected perch just as quickly. A small smile graced his parched lips as the same Light danced closer, nearly pressing itself to his nose, before following the gentle Spring wind once more.

The sprite, the forest; it was all he needed. Everything else in the world, every_one_, was simply materialistic, selfish, greedy rubbish. He didn't want anything else. He wouldn't _allow_ himself to desire anything else-

And that was the first moment in time the two brushed paths, the first time their Fates collided. Arthur, lost in his wishful thinking propped against an Oak trunk as though he'd been too tired to sit more comfortably, and Alfred, crashing through the darkened woodland with all the fury of a young man scorned and abused in unfamiliar territory. Two boys of similar age, living in the same rural settlement their entire life, but yet neither had laid wounded eye on the other till that moment under the lights of stars and woodland Fae. Somehow, that made it all the more important.

"Sorry," the newcomer managed around his ragged breathing. "Didn't know you were here. Am I interruptin'?" He placed one hand against a nearby Beech, his shaded eyes watching Arthur heatedly, expectantly. The young Brit entertained the idea of sending the boy away, perhaps feigning some illness or lack of sanity, but he knew that look too well; the tight lines in the set of the mouth, the steel in the iris' colours, the overall sharp tone his expression bore. It was a look of someone who took what he wanted, who fought with determination and resolve and nary gave up if at all. He knew that, should the boy truly desire to overstay his welcome, he would have it; Arthur silently commended the boy for his obvious strength, betting all the pound notes his old home in London was worth that the boy standing before him, in his crisp shirt and neatly polished shoes, never shouldered a burden. Nothing like Arthur had to endure, anyway.

"If you feel you must," he sniffed, turning his attention to a nearby Spirit. The other blonde, his hair the shining tones of honey and wheat beneath the waning light, sighed as though in relief before plunking himself down next to Arthur with surprising grace. Arthur started at the sudden lack of distance between his person and the other boy, and the brows above his eyes that always seemed too big for his delicate countenance only furrowed further when the taller male proffered a hand.

"My name's Alfred. Alfred Jones!" He held out his hand once more, eyes glimmering joyously as Arthur slipped his palm into his new acquaintance's grasp. Arthur dully noted that the boy's hands were calloused from work and wear. Perhaps he was too quick to judge nowadays. When he'd been younger, he wouldn't have thought twice about another child coming over to say hello, wouldn't have worried that it was all some trick to make a fool of him and make sure he retreated home in bitter, hateful tears. Alfred's lips were moving again, Arthur realized- requesting his name in ostentatious tones as his eyes stayed fixedly on Arthur's face. Suddenly, the lemon-blonde found his own gaze set on Alfred's azure eyes; calm, gentle, mistreated, earnest, _kind_. . .

"Arthur," The Briton slipped his hand out of his companion's as he noticed the Spirits had taken a liking to the newcomer, "Arthur Kirkland."

Arthur was sure he'd heard the other boy's name before, perhaps whispered from the uncouth tongues of his surly classmates when the silence was pressing and he no longer felt eyes scorning the back of his head, if for but that one moment. As he continued to stare at the boy who'd so rudely entered the grove, his sacred place, he wondered if he'd felt the claret scorn of his schoolmates. He wondered if he'd been faced with judgement and had the strength to tell them where to shove it when he hadn't.

In turn, Alfred wondered whether the gentle gleam on Arthur's cheeks were tear tracks or simply a trick of the ethereal light; he knew better than to tread uncertain ground, despite his lack of manners and sense of place. Somethings are truly better left unsaid, and some subjects are better left untouched in the suspended silence.

"So, you live around here?" Alfred finally looked away, pretending to survey the area with his wizened beryl eyes, and Arthur finally released the breath he'd been holding, unsure of when his breath had caught to begin with.

"Of course I live around here you git. Why else would I be enjoying my evening in the middle of the bloody woods if I didn't live somewhere close by?" Arthur rolled his eyes, casting the golden boy with the sky-line-blue eyes a dubious look. Regardless of his words, his tone didn't hold any of his usual ruthless bite.

Alfred tilted his shoulders in a lazy shrug, that commendable smile still making Arthur's insides feel constricted and confined and making his heart do this weird palpitating thing against his small ribs-

"Traveller, maybe?"

Idiot.

"Tell me, why would a child be traveling alone and to where?" Arthur leaned his head back against the rough bark behind him, feeling the grass dance around his hands where they limply by his side. Alfred's smile diminished, replaced with a pout too childish and endearing to be a true frown. "Hey, I'm just trying to make polite conversation!"

"Well, you're doing an awful job of it so far, if you don't mind me saying."

"I do mind you saying! And it's not like you're being very nice yourself!" Alfred scorned, looking thoroughly put-out at Arthur's lack of encouraging response. The other blonde simply closed his eyes, reveling in the breeze and cool of the evening that drifted past them and spun the Spirits in dizzy circles in the treetops.

"I have no reason to be kind."

Alfred said nothing more for a long moment, gaze drifting elsewhere guiltily. As though unsure of where he stood as an outsider, he slowly drew his battered knees to his chest to rest his head. Exhaustion; he was simply exhausted, too tired to go on and face what he knew was waiting for him and what he knew would surprise him later on at an inconvenient time. He wanted to curl in on himself and disappear into a ravine, fall into a canyon and break into a million pieces when he hit the ground, so he wouldn't have to deal with the beatings and the crying and the pain that never seemed to end-

"Where'd you earn this chip?" Arthur's voice was sudden, one of those surprises he'd been thinking about, and he felt the nerves around his heart dance at the kindly tone. The nerves in his face, however, flamed up with embarrassment and pain when his companion brushed a gentle, searching hand across his cheek, his fingertips barely grazing the tokens of his Father's anger not hours before. He drew away from the practiced touch, bringing his own hand to rest on his uninjured jaw warily as he studied the boy sitting but a foot away. His eyes were green, he noted for the second time that evening. Greener than the forestation that surrounded them, and filled with hurt, knowledge, wisdom, genuine concern-

"My Father. Kinda routine."

If Arthur was surprised at Alfred's confession, he showed no inkling of feeling as such. His eyes remained on his face with resolve, assessing the red marks marring his rounded cheeks and the black hue circling one heaven-blue eye ever so subtly, the bruises dotting his knuckles and peaking out from under the crisp shirt collar against the creamy slope of his neck. For one moment, as his eyes were drinking in the earnest pain and violence displayed upon Alfred's gentle childish frame, Arthur felt as though he had a true companion. Someone who understood him and would accept him, as he in turn would.

"I can take care of those, if you want. Help 'em heal faster." Arthur brought a hand to Alfred's face again, gentler this time around, and touched one finger delicately to one of the red marks dipping down over the curve of his cheek. He idly touched the one that dove through the gold of one of his eyebrows before retracting his hand swiftly, feeling he'd crossed a boundary that time 'round.

"Really?" His eyes were alight once more with that same earnest and kind glance he'd spared him when he joined Arthur in his misery, curled up away from the rest of the world in his coven of trees, and Arthur decided he rather liked that expression on Alfred; the gentle tilt of his lip, the soft lines of his cheeks, his eyes dancing in the light with earnest enthusiasm. He rather liked that expression quite a lot.

Arthur nodded, looking away to the Spirits still calmly flitting about the grove in an attempt to hide the pink of his cheeks. With any luck, the late hour's shadows would conceal the damning colour and Alfred wouldn't notice. "Yeah. My Mum's a medicinal practitioner. Works with herbs and whatnot. She's taught me a lot of her work. Healing a cut or two's no problem," Arthur stood, smiling faintly as he rolled his shoulders back and listened contentedly to the pop of his spine and shoulder blades.

"You'd really do that for me?"

"Just because I'm bad at polite conversation doesn't mean I'm heartless. And those look like they bloody hurt."

Alfred stood as well, bracing a hand against the Oak behind him for support as he stretched his long legs with an air of relief at the movement. Arthur supposed the boy was older than him by a year or so, but the height difference was just down right unfair. With a purse of his lips and a couple herb names compiling on the tip of his tongue, Arthur turned and began to trek off in the direction of his home, assuming Alfred would mimic his actions and follow. Alfred followed suit with hurried step and hurt whisper of, "Hey! Artie! Don't leave me here! It's dark! There might be _ghosts_!"

Arthur laughed lightly under his breath as Alfred advanced from behind him, the answer to a question he'd pondered presented before him. So Alfred hadn't seen the Spirits as Arthur had. Whereas Arthur had gawked at lost souls content in their confinements and heavenly nimbus, Alfred had simply seen fireflies or stars. He felt almost alone again with this knowledge. . .

". . . wait a second, what'd you just call me?"

Alfred had caught up, trailing barely a breath away as he stumbled over twisted roots and the edge of Arthur's shoes. "Oh, you don't like 'Artie'? I thought it was cute; it suits you!"

Arthur's cheeks flamed once more, embarrassed by Alfred's careless word use and the sweet, bells-and-chimes laughter that followed. Once more, Alfred proved himself oblivious to other people's boundaries as he slid his calloused palm into Arthur's unabashedly as the taller blonde focused on disentangling his foot from where his shoe had caught in a thick loop of Oak roots. "W-what are you doing?"

"Sorry, my foot got caught in some roots; it's like they're trying to eat me!"

"No, n-no, I mean. . ." Arthur paused as Alfred continued to struggle against his captor, eventually growing frustrated enough to slip his socked foot from the boot and retrieving it by hand. He turned to Arthur triumphantly, holding the shoe like a trophy he'd won after engaging in the most difficult of trials. "Sorry, what were ya on about Iggy?"

"It's nothing I suppose," he answered softly, gaving their clasped hands an appraising glance. He liked the way his palm fit in Alfred's; safe and snug, like it was meant to sit in his grasp. He tightened his fingers around Alfred's battered knuckles ever so slightly, expression gentle as he reveled in the heat from the other boy's closeness.

He'd been quick to judge, bitter from years of abuse, but he was glad Alfred was a persistent muppet.

". . . wait a second, _Iggy_? For all the Fae, what is it with you and nicknames?"

"Well, if we're gonna be friends I have to have something cute to call ya! You can call me 'Alfie'."

"Certainly not!"

Abused, neglected and worn, the two bonded over nicknames and salve and a shared sanctuary without a sense of time. And yet, beneath the first stars of dusk and the shadows creeping around the edges of the house and hiding their fears and worries if only for that moment, it made their bond all the stronger.


End file.
